Signature Life: Rita Coolidge

by James Servin

When the Club Casino announced that Rita Coolidge would be appearing in August, I knew instantly that I had to attend — her songs “We’re All Alone” and “Your Love Is Lifting Me Higher” were huge in 1977, and I really liked her disco-flavored single, “You” from a year back — but there was something so un-Hampton Beach about the image presented on her album covers. I can see why now: her look is very Malibu meets Santa Fe, very West Coast. Her biggest album, the double platinum Anytime…Anywhere, shows her wearing turquoise and silver jewelry and a confident, enigmatic smile that seems to suggest, “I have it all,” which, since she at the time was married to Kris Kristofferson, most people would agree that she probably did. The back cover offers a more pulled-back shot, a fuller view of Rita and her silver and turquoise jewelry. Be-ringed hand hanging listlessly over a knee, Rita wears the most deadpan expression which could rival Cher in transmitting a vibe of “I’m so cool, everything else in the world bores me right now.”

By 1980 and her appearance at the Club Casino, Rita had divorced Kris, cut and permed her hair, tossed out the turquoise and silver, and glammed up in Calvin Klein with her then-new album, Satisfied, where her facial expression finally invites the listener into her world. It’s like her “divorce makeover” album, with the kickoff single, the lovely, wistful ballad “I’d Rather Leave While I’m In Love,” which got radio play and became a decent hit.

I wasn’t at all sure what to expect with this concert, but, chilly album covers aside, it was exciting to have as big a star as Rita in our midst. It should also be noted that reverberations from the Streisand-Kristofferson A Star Is Born juggernaut could still be felt — it was like Jaws and Star Wars back then, mythic, huge — and Rita, by association to Kris, along with a cameo in the film as herself, presenting at the Grammy Awards, had some of that excitement around her. She was definitely pop culture royalty.

I realize now that those chilly album cover poses were the style of the time. Singers were packaged by record companies into gods and goddesses; they were aspirational figures, positioned to seem as though they lived on another plane. The albums — both music and imagery — offered a brief entrée into their enlightened, wealthy, stylish realm. As a kid, I bought into the commercial presentation 100 per cent. Album covers were documentaries, showing these gorgeous beings as they were every day, lounging decadently in glamorous settings. Or, I thought, once you attained the goal of being a singer and photographed for an album cover, your whole life changed, and you and your surroundings were always that glamorous and glossy. You looked at these portals to another, distant reality and wondered: “How can I get there? How can I be that?” Which is exactly what the record companies wanted: “Well, for $7.99, you can have a taste of it, with these photos and this music. Dream away…for today, tonight, but there’s more, there’s always more…”

I got the tickets for Rita Coolidge feeling that this would be a special night, totally different for Hampton Beach. I was curious about real-life Rita: what would she be like? I arrived at the show early, with my mom, who didn’t mind coming along with me to any concert I asked her to (because the Club Casino serves alcohol, children under age 18 are not allowed unless accompanied by a parent). We got seats close to, but not quite right up against the stage.

As soon as Rita stood before a wildly applauding audience, it was clear that this show would be all about energy. Her formally shy, retiring, subdued stage presence had disappeared along with the cascading hair. This was newly divorced Rita, wearing jeans and sparkly purple top, rocking out on her own and having fun. Her upbeat energy and fine voice won the audience over instantly. She put on a fantastic show, singing all her hits. I took photos of Rita waving her hands to the music, letting loose. That mysterious, somewhat icy presence on album covers was nowhere to be seen. Rita seemed to revel in her makeover; the audience got caught up in her spirited energy and cheered her on. I loved every minute of this concert, but I did have that nagging thought in the back of my mind, watching Rita onstage: “Am I going to put myself forward and ask her to sign my album after the show?” The idea both excited me and filled me with dread. I’m a strange mix of very shy, sensitive, and, occasionally, pushy. Sometimes pushy wins out and drags the sensitive part of me along for the ride, horrified and dreading.

The concert had ended. Camera and album in hand, I looked to my mom who was sipping a margarita across the table and asked, “Can I go and see if she signs?”

“OK,” my mom said. “On your way, could you get the waiter to come over? I want to order another drink.”

I was a little worried at this, and said, “OK, but I don’t think I will be too long.”

So I positioned myself outside the wood door to the Club Casino artists’ dressing room, where I’d stood many times, for the Pointer Sisters, Judy Collins and others. Tonight, a group of ten or so fans were waiting for Rita. We all stood quietly, nervously, as various personnel entered and exited the artist’s dressing room door, each exuding an aura of insider urgency and fashionable belonging. We wondered, will Rita meet with her fans? In such circumstances, you anticipate both positive and negative outcomes, with apprehension: if you actually meet the artist, what are you going to say? How is it going to feel? Will they be nice, kind? If they don’t come out to sign, how are you going to manage that moment of rejection? Well, one thinks now, best not to contemplate either outcome. Just stay in the present.

We stood for quite a while. The crowd thinned down to ten and then finally five diehard fans. I was getting nervous, looking out to the tables in front of the stage, and most of them had cleared. My mother wasn’t in view, but I knew she’d be getting restless. Finally, just past the feeling that we really should go, that it would be foolish and uncomfortable and pointless to wait any longer, the door to the artist’s dressing room door opened, and a husky man in khakis and white sport shirt said: “How many of you are there? Five? Ok, she’ll see you, but only for a minute.”

The man opened the door and let us walk into that hallowed space, the artist’s dressing room, where a year earlier I’d interviewed the Pointer Sisters. In that same space, where the three sisters had seemed kind of crammed, Rita Coolidge exuded star power under bright overhead lights; she still had on her sparkly purple shirt (I was wearing what I thought was a ‘great outfit’ purchased by myself at T.J. Maxx: a maroon-white-and-turquoise-striped velour shirt, paired with turquoise chinos). I let two fans go ahead of me so I could get my bearings in this head-spinning moment. Because, Rita Coolidge wasn’t icy, reserved or snobby at all, like those older album covers had suggested — she was really nice! Smiling, upbeat, making everyone feel welcome. I felt like I’d entered that star reality, that vortex where the stardust of a celebrity just shimmers onto everyone in their orbit, lifting them up, making them feel famous, too. When it was my turn to meet with Rita, I shyly handed her my copy of her latest album, Satisfied, for her to sign, and she asked me who she should to inscribe it to: “Jimmy,” I said, and she repeated “Jimmy” as she wrote out in a nice flourish: “To Jimmy Nice Feelin’ Rita Coolidge” (Nice Feelin’ is the name of her second album, released in 1971.) I’d asked the woman standing behind me if she could take my picture with Rita, and she’d said yes, so I handed the fellow fan my camera. Rita and I were standing, smiling, waiting for the fan to figure out how to take the shot, which button to press. The fan finally took the photo and then…

Suddenly, in the door frame of the artist’s dressing room, a figure appeared, or should I say, slightly shuffled into view. To my horror, I realized that it was my mother, who had clearly gotten bored and had come looking for me.

“Oh, Rita, this is my mom,” I said, laughing at the incongruous sight of my mother, face to face with Rita Coolidge.

“Hello,” Rita nodded and smiled, unruffled by the surprise cameo from my mom.

“With that long line outside the door,” my mom declared, “you’d think they were waiting to see the Blessed Mother.”

We all laughed. This was my mom’s take on celebrity. She was happy to come to the concerts with me, but had no time for anything beyond the song playing on the radio or sung live onstage (she thought it was all frivolous — and of course I was convinced that she just didn’t get it). Rita was so good-natured about her unexpected visitor. I loved her for that, and of course my mom, too, for just being herself.

Everything about that night — the show, the autograph, the photo made me think fondly of Rita Coolidge. Rita had a good heart. I was reminded of these qualities recently, when reading her candid and generous-spirited memoir, Delta Lady.

I’d begun reading Delta Lady in 2019 when it occurred to me to look at Rita’s website, to see her tour schedule. As fate would have it, she was to play the Iridium Jazz Club in New York City, near Times Square, within weeks! I had to see the show. Ticket prices had risen astronomically since she played the Club Casino in 1980. This ticket cost $70, with a ‘meet and greet’ option available for an additional $100. I was fortunate to get to the venue, a dinner club, slightly late, and so I avoided having to order dinner and pay an additional $40 for that.

I loved the concert. Watching Rita was like visiting an old friend. But this time, instead of wild energy and sparkling shirts, Rita took to the stage looking somewhat shell-shocked. She announced almost immediately that she was recovering from the stress of her home in Tallahassee, Florida nearly burning down after it was struck by lightning. She still, understandably, seemed upset by this throughout the show.

I’d of course thought about doing the meet and greet, and seeing Rita again. But $100 was a lot, when a few decades ago I’d been able to have that wonderful moment with her for free. If I were to have met with Rita, I’d have asked her to sign a copy of her memoir Delta Lady. Just after her show, someone listed an autographed copy on eBay for $25, and I bought that. When you’ve watched a celebrity sign an autograph in person, it’s easy to tell a real from a fake specimen sold online. The key indication is confidence in the handwriting; not necessarily perfection, because that’s often a red flag. If the imperfections are rendered with confidence, the signature is usually genuine. Rita’s signature features large letters and loops, indicative of a relaxed, spontaneous and open-minded person, which in my experience, she certainly is.

© James Servin